


Cùil Lodair

by Eggling



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: M/M, it's not super gory or anything it's just. a war. in which people die, polly's mentioned but she isn't really there, semi-graphic depictions of violence and graphic depictions of piping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 03:33:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20614268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eggling/pseuds/Eggling
Summary: Jamie carries the ghosts of Culloden with him through time and space.





	Cùil Lodair

**Author's Note:**

> on [tumblr](https://the--highlanders.tumblr.com/post/187682767451/c%C3%B9il-lodair-eggling-doctor-who-archive-of-our).

Blue light was beginning to filter through the heavy clouds, falling over the houses of Culloden village to illuminate the men and women huddled in ditches and leaning against buildings. Too few of them were soldiers, Jamie thought bitterly, and those who were would surely be too tired and hungry to fight well. Even in the brief hour since they had returned to the village, he had seen countless shadows slipping off in search of food or rest or safety. Once he would have cursed them for turning away, going home to their families. Now, kneeling on the cold ground, feeling the dew soak through his plaid to cling to his skin, he found he could not blame them, but he still could not bring himself to join them.

The village was familiar to him – he had visited a handful of times, with his father, and he was sure he could find his way home. He was closer now to his family’s land than he had been since before his regiment joined the army. There was nothing to stop him from returning to their croft, their school, the blackhouse where he had grown up, shrouded beneath the fading cover of darkness as he was. But the house would stand empty, the hearth cold and the beds gathering dust. The other men were running home to parents and wives and children anxiously awaiting them. He had nothing to return to.

He could feel himself stiffening, his limbs protesting at his silent vigil, but exhaustion and hunger dulled the discomfort of it, and he stayed sitting perfectly still, gazing up at the lit windows of Culloden house. Every so often, a dark figure would flit past, sometimes hurrying, sometimes gesturing wildly, and he stared intently at each one, as if hoping they would speak to him. Absently, he wondered which one was the Prince, deciding their fate. Perhaps he was the calm one, barely visible in the flickering candlelight, hardly gesturing at all – or perhaps he was the one waving his hands wildly, arguing some point or another.

Others were starting to stir as the dawn light brightened, creeping out from barns and unwrapping themselves from plaids and blankets. Slow and groggy after barely an hour’s sleep, they moved as though the tension in the air was palpable, thick and cloying as molasses. Somewhere in the distance, a cluster of soldiers were passing out a few fragments of dry oatcake to those who had woken, but Jamie did not bother to struggle for a piece. His stomach was churning with anxiety and anticipation, and he remained where he was, still staring up at the house, waiting. The blue light was giving way to gold, lighting up the facade of the house like a beacon, and he could not tear his eyes away.

As the sun crept further over the horizon, men and women alike stopped and turned towards the house, waiting for their Prince to decide how they were to die.

* * *

“Still here?”

Jerking upright, Jamie opened his eyes to see Ben standing over him, with a paper cup in each hand. He had been sitting hunched over on the bench outside the conference room for so long that he had almost begun to nod off, and it took him a moment to force himself to smile. “Aye, I’m still here.” He leant back against the wall, stretching his arms over his head and wincing with the effort of moving. “I thought ye were asleep.”

Ben shrugged, and Jamie saw in his eyes a touch of the same familiar restlessness that plagued him. “Woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. Thought a walk might help. What about you?”

“They’re still debatin’. There was a wee bit of yelling a while ago, but I think the Doctor managed tae sort it out.”

Sitting down on the bench, Ben bumped his shoulder against Jamie’s. “I was asking how _you_ were feeling.”

“Aye, I know.” Jamie gave Ben another weak smile. “I’m fine, really.”

“If you say so.” Ben passed Jamie another one of the cups. It was brimming with a steaming, greenish liquid, and Jamie stared down into its depths blankly. “I thought you might need one of these. It’s supposed to work like coffee.”

Nodding gratefully, Jamie took a sip, but grimaced when the taste of it hit his mouth. “Hey, it’s sour.”

Ben laughed at his expression. “You’ve got to drink it in one go, see.” He downed the contents of his own cup, and Jamie copied him, shuddering. “Probably shouldn’t have done that. I’ll never get to sleep now.”

“Ye could always stay here,” Jamie suggested. “If ye like.”

“No thanks, mate.” Ben clapped him on the back, then stood up, taking Jamie’s empty cup. “It’d do my head in, just sitting here and waiting. I'll go back to the dorms.”

Jamie shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“What about you? Don’t you mind waiting?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Jamie shook his head. “Ye go on. I’d rather wait for the Doctor.” He nestled against the wall, trying to slip back into a half-doze. “Thanks. For – ye know – comin’ over here.”

“That’s alright, mate.” Ben reached out to squeeze Jamie’s shoulder. “I’ll make sure they keep a bed empty for you, if you change your mind.”

* * *

“They’ve reached a decision.”

The grim resignation in Alexander’s voice answered any questions Jamie might have had before he even raised his head. When he did look up, he saw Alexander standing slumped over, as if carrying the whole weight of his clan on his shoulders. He had known it would come to this, Jamie told himself. He had spent the whole night alone with the unavoidable fact that they were cornered, that there was no way out. And yet when he opened his mouth, he found himself going through the motions of pretending that there was still hope. “What’re the Prince’s orders?”

“We march for Drummossie Moor,” Alexander said wearily, as if he had said it a hundred times before – and he must have, Jamie realised, to every kinsman and soldier of their regiment who still remained. “We’ll meet Cumberland there.” Jamie nodded, staring back down at the grass beneath him. “Father said Murray wanted tae try an’ get to the river, but the Prince doesnae listen to him anymore, only to his Irish friends.” Alexander spoke loosely, as if a great weight was tumbling from his shoulders. “May God grant us victory.”

Jamie gave a non-committal murmur. Hunched on the ground amongst the other half-starved, exhausted men, he wanted to snap back that they were surely beyond God’s helping, but he bit his tongue. Instead, he forced himself to stand up, brushing dirt from his plaid. “When do we leave?”

“The Prince is making ready as we speak.” Alexander glanced around at the nearby men. “Doesnae look like we’ll all make it in time.” He leant in closer, lowering his voice pointedly. “I couldnae blame a man for wantin’ tae leave while he still had the chance.”

Looking up at Alexander, Jamie was struck by how much older he seemed, pressed down by the knowledge that he could not keep everyone safe. For a moment, he was tempted by the offer of a blind eye, a way out. “No,” he said slowly. “I couldnae blame a man for runnin’ away either. No’ if he didnae think we were fightin’ for the right thing.” He gave Alexander a resigned grin. “’Spose they want us tae muster the men.”

“Aye. The other pipers were gatherin’ over there.” Alexander pointed behind him.

Jamie nodded, gathering his pipes up off the ground and cradling them as if for comfort. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but found himself speechless at the prospect of saying goodbye to Alexander. Instead, he strode off towards the other pipers, fiddling with his pipes as he went. The men around him were stirring, some slinking off deeper into the village, others – too few, always too few – drawing towards the gathering crowd. Jamie felt a pang of guilt for having joined them. His songs, once proud and full of hope, now felt like a siren song, calling men in towards their deaths.

Lifting his pipes, he hit his palm against the bag and began to play.

* * *

“No.”

“Jamie -”

“You’re no’ lettin’ them go.” Clutching the nearest couple of Plyx closer to him, Jamie stared down the Doctor. “I dinnae care if they want tae go, ye _know_ they’ve been lied to, they cannae let them go out an’ fight -”

“_Jamie_.” The Doctor spoke quietly, but firmly enough that Jamie’s protests trailed away. “I have no intention of letting the governor get away with this.”

“They’re just _kids_,” Jamie insisted. “I know ye said they’re clones, an’ they’ve been fed knowledge an’ all that. But they’re still kids who think they’re goin’ on a big adventure, an’ -” He shook his head, looking up at the Doctor pleadingly. “It’s no’ an adventure at all.”

The Doctor stepped closer, squeezing his shoulder slowly, deliberately, a silent promise. “They’re not going anywhere,” he said softly. “I’m only sorry we didn’t arrive in time to save the first generations.”

Relief filled Jamie, and he staggered a little, throwing his arms around the Doctor’s shoulders and resting his head against his chest. The Plyx looked up at him bemusedly, clicking the frills on their backs in concern. A few pressed forwards to tug at Jamie’s shirt and the hem of his kilt, trying to pull him back into their tight-knit circle. After a moment Jamie gave in, pulling the Doctor down with him to kneel at their eye level.

“They dinnae know anything,” he said. “They’ve never seen the world outside this fortress, an’ they never will, if the governor has his way.”

“They’re children of war,” the Doctor murmured. “They were never meant to see sunlight.” He studied one of the Plyx, nudging it into turning back and forth. “You know, I think the worst thing is, they’re on the right side. The rebels turned to violence because they couldn’t stand to share this world with people different from themselves, like the Plyx’s ancestors. If he hadn’t started breeding clones as cannon fodder, I could almost have admired the governor for fighting back.”

“Aye.” Jamie scrubbed at the dampness on his cheeks. “It’d be so much easier if the right people did the right things.”

“Mm.” The Doctor reached up to rest his hand on Jamie’s back comfortingly. “I know you wish you could have saved them.”

There was a heaviness in his voice, a particular streak of quiet seriousness that told Jamie he knew there was more to this than simply saving the Plyx. “Aye,” he said, his own voice low and choked. “It’s silly, I know. But even if I could’ve saved one person – pulled someone away, or told someone tae run, maybe stopped Alexander from goin’ out there an’ bein’ killed -” He shrugged. “I cannae save any of them now, but I can save the Plyx.”

The Doctor smiled, his expression half-fond, half-filled with fierce anticipation at the prospect of a fresh challenge. “And I’ll help you.”

* * *

The men were shouting, stamping their feet, banging their weapons against their shields. They called in vain for vengeance, for justice, screaming the names of their fallen companions until their throats were raw and hoarse. Jamie stood amongst them, still despite their restlessness, feeling the boggy ground shudder with the force of their frustration.

He played on.

Wind and sleet were driving against his face, stinging his eyes. His hands were chilled to the bone, and his fingers slipped against the chanter, skipping over a note. Out of habit, he scolded himself for his clumsiness, thankful that his father had not heard his mistake. But the thought of his father caused fresh grief to flower in his chest, and he wished for a moment that his hands and mouth were free, and he could shout the names of the fallen alongside the others.

He played on.

The rhythmic pulse of cannon-fire drummed almost in time with his tapping foot, even as the screams of men struck down by musket-fire and grapeshot threatened to drown him out. A canister struck barely a few metres away from where he stood, showering clods of earth over him and filling the air with the stench of blood. Streams of reddened water were already trickling across the marshes, swirling around his feet and soaking through the soft leather of his shoes. He hated the fact that he barely flinched, carrying on with his tune as if men were not being torn apart around him.

He played on, and on, as if the world could end and he would still be left standing there, untouched.

“They cannae make us wait much longer,” the laird exclaimed, his words all but torn to shreds by the noise. “They must give the order soon.”

_The order will come_, Jamie wanted to cry in return. _They can’t leave us here to be torn to shreds_. But the sleet drove harder into his face, and the grapeshot bit deeper and deeper into the ranks, and no order came. His hands were growing ever clumsier with the cold, his breathing shallow and fast, and he wondered whether he would still be playing when it was his turn to be struck down, or whether life would empty out of his pipes before it drained from him.

Gradually, he became aware of a great roar rippling down their flank of the army as the men’s frustration boiled into rage. All across the army, the other pipers were falling silent as their tunes were drowned out by the thunderous sound. A few scattered groups began to charge, followed by more and more men. The chain thundered down the line towards them, slowed to a painful crawl by both the boggy ground and Jamie’s own panic.

Fumbling with his pipes, he turned to hand them to the lad behind him. The boy was white-faced and trembling himself, much too young for this, and Jamie was suddenly, painfully aware that he ought to be taking the pipes from his father, not fighting with the army.

Alexander clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll do your father proud, piper,” he said gruffly, as if he had read Jamie’s thoughts on his face.

_Not like this_, Jamie thought, staring down at the bodies that already littered the battlefield. _I couldn’t make him proud like this_.

Drawing his dirk, he stepped up to stand beside his laird, bracing himself for the charge.

* * *

The sound of poorly-muffled sobs made Jamie pause, retracing his steps to head towards the source of the noise. Ben and Polly carried on without him, not noticing that he had gone, and for a moment he considered shouting after them – but there was that sound again, a pitiful whine coming from behind a pile of crates.

He crept closer, remembering the Doctor’s warning that the city was still littered with traps. “Hello?” he called nervously. “Is anyone there?”

There was no reply, only a soft squeak of alarm and a scrambling sound, as if whoever was crying was trying to hide from him. Crouching down, he peered through the gaps between the crates and caught a glimpse of a child. Surprised, he rocked back on his heels, bumping against a bin lid and sending them scrambling further into a dark corner.

“Hey!” he exclaimed. “Hey, I’m no’ going tae hurt ye.” They looked up at him doubtfully, eyes glinting through the darkness. “I was worried about ye, that’s all.” He shuffled around the boxes on his knees, putting his hands up in the hopes that it might calm them. “What’re ye doin’ here?”

The child shrugged. “Looking for food.”

Jamie blinked down at them, then stared up at the sky, stained red with rocket fuel and the slowly-fading smoke of gunfire. “Now?”

“I was before you lot showed up,” the child mumbled. “Then I had to hide here.”

“Oh.” Jamie sat down, leaning back against the grimy wall. “What’s your name?”

“Adyla.”

“Nice tae meet ye, Adyla. I’m Jamie.” He frowned, looking Adyla up and down. Their luminous eyes and patches of scaly skin made it obvious that they were alien to him, but their stricken expression could hardly have been any more human. “Are ye frightened?”

Adyla crossed their arms, sticking their bottom lip out petulantly. “No.”

Even if their voice had not trembled, Jamie would not have believed it. “A bunch of people from another world arrive in your home an’ start blowing things up? You’d be mad not tae be scared.”

“I’m the oldest in my family,” Adyla protested. “My youngest sibling’s only four. I can’t be scared.”

“Aye, ye can,” Jamie said. “It makes ye more scared than ever, when you’ve got all those people tae be brave for.”

Adyla fell silent for a moment, scuffing at the ground with their hand. “People in the town were talking about the Doctor. Have you ever seen him?”

“Seen him?” The thought of it made Jamie laugh. “He’s -” He shrugged, struggling with the task of explaining the Doctor. “He’s my best friend,” he said at last.

“Did he do the same to you? Drop out of the skies and ruin everything?”

Leaning forward, Jamie took Adyla by the shoulder. “He’s not here tae ruin everything,” he said firmly. “He saved me when we first met, an’ he’s here tae save ye too. Trust me. He’s gonnae make things better here.”

Adyla looked up at him, studying his expression carefully. “Alright.”

“Good lad.” Jamie smiled at them, squeezing their shoulders. “But it’s alright tae be scared.” Adyla nodded, hanging their head. “Would ye like a hug?”

To his surprise, Adyla all but threw themselves into his arms before he had even finished speaking. He held them close, feeling pent-up sobs start to rattle out of their thin frame, and for a moment he felt as if he was holding the ghosts of a hundred others, on quite a different battlefield.

When Adyla pulled back, they were mopping at their eyes with their sleeve. “I think I needed that,” they mumbled into the thick fabric.

“Aye,” Jamie said, his own voice a little choked. “Aye, me too.”

* * *

The ground between the two armies stretched out before him, a great expanse littered with the bodies of those who had failed to reach the other side. The marshy ground was cloyed with their blood, pulling at his feet as if trying to drag him down to join them. Even the ceaseless firing of guns and artillery seemed to have faded into the background, replaced by a yawning abyss of silence as he ran across the moor. 

Then a flash of movement caught his eye, and he turned to see the laird fall beside him.

Alexander was by the laird’s side before Jamie could even skid to a halt, and he felt himself torn between turning back to help and carrying on towards the battle. His place was by the laird’s side – but his companions were running onwards towards the waiting redcoats. If he carried on, he would be shirking his duty – but if he turned back, he knew he would be abandoning the others.

His foot snagged on a deep pit, jerking him out of his thoughts and sending him sprawling across the grass, his dirk tumbling out of his hand. He lay there winded, hearing musket balls whistle to and fro around him, feeling the muddy, bloody water that drenched the moor soak into his shirt. So this was his fate, he thought distantly. To be left lying unhurt in the middle of the battlefield whilst the redcoats cut those around him to pieces.

Pushing himself onto his hands and knees, he drew his hand across his forehead, leaving a wide, rusty stain. Other men were running past him now, blocking the laird and Alexander from his view, and he realised that he must have looked as though he had been shot down. Scrambling forwards, he picked up his knife and pushed himself a little more upright with its hilt. The blade sunk into the ground, and he imagined that the slight resistance of it came not from peat but from a redcoat’s chest. The thought made him retch, coughing and choking over yet another reddened pool, and he was almost glad of the meagre rations they had been given for the last few days.

Remembering that he was crouching before rows of enemy soldiers, he flinched away, expecting to be shot down at any moment. But when he turned to face the other army, he saw instead that their soldiers were turning away from him, encircling those who had managed to reach their ranks. He was struck by the urge to join those of his regiment who had reached the other side, the sense that he should be fighting with them, or else have died in the attempt. But even as he went to struggle across the moor, the redcoats closed around them, firing round after round of pistol shot into the tight circle of trapped men.

The screams of the dying sounded at full volume once again, and he bent over, gagging into the grass. When he closed his eyes, he found that the sight of men being cut down by musket and bayonet and pistol was etched onto the backs of his eyelids, playing out over and over again. The line of the government’s army was breaking as the fighting moved forwards to surround him, and he struggled to get to his feet and join in, but he was frozen with terror. His body had made the choice between coward and soldier for him, he thought bitterly. A year and a half of following the army, a few battles' worth of fighting, but when it mattered most he could do nothing but watch.

He wheeled around, intending to run to Alexander, to do his duty and pull his laird away from the battle, but was met instead by the leering face of a redcoat brandishing his bayonet. Jamie lashed out with his dirk instinctively, cutting through the other man's waistcoat. The redcoat staggered, pressing his hand against the wound, and Jamie knew now was the time to finish him off. But the prospect of taking a life made him waver, and he hesitated just a moment too long. The redcoat moved in to smash the butt of his musket against Jamie’s head, sending him tumbling to the ground, his vision already darkening. Even as his eyes closed, he searched for where he had last seen his regiment, and as his consciousness faded he was filled with despair.

The circle of redcoats had dispersed, leaving only a pile of corpses.

* * *

Sitting up in bed, Jamie pulled the blankets around his shoulders, as if the shudders running through him were borne of cold. If he closed his eyes even for a moment the battle flashed before him again, so he fixed his gaze on the opposite wall, relishing the empty darkness that his mind could not conjure up. But soon that too was filled with horrors, the tang of blood in the air and the ceaseless firing of cannons and the sounds of a thousand dying men.

Beside him, the Doctor stirred, struggling to draw the blankets back over himself. “Jamie? What time is it?” Jamie did not reply, still staring out into empty space, and the Doctor sat up, shaking his shoulder worriedly. “Jamie. Jamie, dear, what’s wrong?”

“I saw it,” Jamie murmured hoarsely, his throat stinging with unshed tears. “Culloden. I saw it again.”

“Oh.”

“I was just standin’ there. There was so much blood, an’ noise, an’ I couldnae do anything, ‘cause I was too afraid. I just watched them all die.” Turning towards the Doctor at last, Jamie looked down at him, eyes wide and pleading. “I know it didnae really happen like that, but – I left them all tae die, didn’t I? I ran away with ye an’ did nothing.”

“There was nothing you could have done.” Sitting up, the Doctor grasped at his wrist firmly, grounding him. “If you hadn’t come with us – well, I’d hate to think of what would have happened. You might have ended up dead, or worse.”

Jamie shook his head. “I dinnae want tae keep rememberin’ it like that.”

“Then tell me about it.” The Doctor drew him back down, letting him relax into the bed, slowing his shaking. “About Culloden. Tell me what really happened.”

**Author's Note:**

> made to link in with [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15021026).


End file.
